From Within
by ooliblikas
Summary: Years after nearly dying at the hands of his mentally-unstable mother, Roxas' mother passes away and he's left the nightmare house from his childhood. As he uncovers his mother's dark secrets, he begins to question his own sanity. AU.
1. John 3:16

At thirteen, Roxas was seemingly both beyond and behind his peers. He was sheltered to the point he'd never be able to relate to the television programming his classmates talked about, but aware enough that he understood the tragedy of mental illness and the horror of child abuse. Prior to the incident, his teachers had been chatting about the mysterious bruises that appeared on his skin. The way the carefree and bright child who could've been a candidate for ADHD, had slowly reverted inwards and spent classes staring out the window. They knew something had to be said, but no one was brave enough to face the woman he called mother. If they had, maybe he'd be saved in more ways than one

On October 23rd, Roxas came home to find his home void of gospel music. No preacher on the dusty old radio leading the dammed to the road of salvation. No hushed mumblings of prayer. Nothing. Still, he navigated his home as if it were a minefield, searching without a sound for his mother. He lingered in the entrance of the kitchen. As his eyes adjusted to the poor lighting from the candles, he recognized fragments of furniture limbs nailed to windows. The glow of the candles radiated off the religious icons his mother hoarded in every room, turning heir house into an altar. No matter how many times he read stories of the saints and angels, he couldn't help but feel their faces contorted in disdain at his very presence. Too frightened by the silence of the house, he didn't notice his mother behind him until it was too late.

When he finally awoke, he was heavily sedated and struggled with the simple action of curling his fingers. He could tell he was still in the kitchen, laying on the cold tiles and being illuminated with candles. So many thoughts were swirling in his head, but each turn down his short-life lead him back to the thought of; could he have avoided this? If he'd stayed late to read the note that'd been tucked in his locker, to be consumed in what he'd later discover to be a love letter, would he have missed the bus and left his mother with no choice but to pick him up and forgo her plan? If he hadn't stopped whispering in the middle of math class when asked, would he have landed himself in detention? In the end, he reasoned it wouldn't have made a difference, but the possibilities continued to weigh on his mind as he laid there.

Even sedated and slipping in and out of consciousness, he felt the heated liquid of his blood pooling on the fabric of his sweater. His fingers continued flexing, fighting to reach up and find the source of the wound. Only a dull throb of pain, but he felt cold and his body writhed. His lips moved, but produced no sounds and his eye-lids felt heavy. His vision faded, tunneling and unable to focus on anyone particular. The police would later report his mother had acted alone, but he would never believe them. He felt their eyes and he heard their voices. Were they praying, or chanting? He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"It'll be over soon, my precious child. You'll be returned to heaven, a angel once more. Safe and sound."

He felt hands brushing back his hair, but he couldn'tdo anything more. The next time he awoke, it was in the hospital. The doctor's marveled at how the jagged six-inch blade had managed to miss his vital organs. The police marveled at how alert the neighbors had been. The neighbors marveled at the monster living in their cozy community. The jurors marveled at the middle-aged woman who swore God told her to do it. The thirteen year old marveled at his loneliness.

- Ten Years Later -

"I think that's about enough for today."

The voice came from a plump middle-aged man with a thick Irish-accent. The kind of accent that, after nine years, still made Roxas arch his brow in misunderstanding. As the man removed his glasses, he folded them on his notepad, and pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief second before smiling warmly at the blond, "You haven't mentioned your nightmares in awhile. Are you still having them?"

"Not really, no. Dr. Singh has me trying out a new medication and it's been good so far."

Roxas' voice is much smaller than his therapists. In fact, the first time he'd met his therapist, he'd been startled by the force of it. In comparison, he squeaked like a mouse where the man roared like a lion.

"That's good. So next week then?" Another smile and Roxas nods, already standing to wrap his scarf around his neck. A quick exchange of co-pay and receipt, he's out the door, and jogging down the two flights of stairs to avoid being caught on the narrow stair case with another human. Outside, the snow, which is more like slush, squishes beneath his leather boots and for the first time, he realizes his boots are worn down as frozen snow soaks his socks. Still, there's no time to worry about frost-bite when you have no reliable form of transportation and have the burden of making a thirty-minute walk across town in ten minutes.

He manages to do it in twenty minutes, a feat the surprises even himself as he steps into the worn-down and completely out of place book store. He's late for work once again, but the owner never seems to make a gesture of displeasure. The old lady, most popularly known as Mimi, merely pats the man on the cheek and speaks in french at him. When he first started working here, he'd secretly study the french-phrase hand-books to decipher the mysterious ramblings, but after a few months he'd given up. After all, the only time she spoke to him in French, was when he was late or day-dreaming.

The bookstore is older than Mimi. While the entire town has expanded and modernized, the tiny bookstore stands out like a sore-thumb. A paradox. The elderly adore it and the trying to be too hip hipsters, flock to it. The small-town business tycoons, hate it. If anyone dared to tear it down and build over it, though Mimi would chase them out with a broom. Still, it was a job and Roxas enjoyed the quiet atmosphere.

"Why aren't you in college?"

"Can't afford it."

That's how their conversation goes. The entire day, Mimi points out all the things a twenty-three year old should be doing. She nags, pulling at heart-strings and making the blond frown. Still, he answers each question. Not because he's far too polite for his own good, but because he imagines it's the closest he has now to a mother or father. The old woman means well, but has a strange way of approaching it. By the end of the shift, she's trying to hook him up on a date with her granddaughter, but he kindly declines.

At his apartment complex, he picks up his mail and narrowly avoids running into his landlord. Two months behind rent, he dreads the conversation with his creepy landlord that stares much too long at children in the halls. In his apartment, he nukes leftover chinese food and thumbs through his mail. When he sees it, he swallows hard and his heart-beat overpowers the buzz of the microwave. A letter from the Mental Institution of Redford. He hasn't received a letter from her in years. Most of what she sent him, were letters written upon letters. She'd fit so much until a single page, that it all would jumble together and become illegible. As harmless as it was, it frightened him.

This time, however, the envelope held a typed letter.

His mother was dead.


	2. Jer 29:11

It'd been three days since he'd heard the news and he was still nauseous. He had called the institution, but all they could tell him was that it'd been unexpected. Aside from her mental illness, his mother had been healthy. No one had thought her heart would just stop. All that was left to do was bury the dead.

Initially, Roxas wanted nothing to do with the task. Even as an adult, there was a part of him that was still a child hiding underneath his bed. A child who saw the boogeyman not in his closet, but in his mother. Despite all of this, his therapist insisted it would be good for him. It'd give him a sense of closure. He could forgive if he wanted to. He could cry for himself, or his mother, or for both. According to his therapist, attending the funeral would make her death a reality. It was another step in his recovery and reconciliation.

Eventually he agreed, but he refused to go by himself.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, Roxas. "

In front of the train station, a petite blonde wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. Five years his senior, Namine had been a volunteer when he first arrived at the hospital. Her mother had worked as a clown and offered children a distraction from their illnesses. Namine, on the other hand, was much too reserved to be a clown, but she enjoyed reading stories to the children. Sometimes the hospital would even allow her to do face-painting for the kids. It was by her own morbid curiosity, of the boy who almost died in the name of God, that she met Roxas. All that time had passed, but they were still friends. Brother and sister, even.

"I'm glad you came, Namine. It means a lot to me, y'know?"

They embraced for a few seconds more before they walked into the train station to board the train.

For the first few hours, Namine and him spoke with a care-free nature. Namine told him about some guy she'd met at an art gallery named Riku. She described Riku as a living piece of art-work and as a joke, Roxas asked her; Abstract or Surrealism? She laughed and he told her about Mimi trying to hook him up with granddaughter. That he didn't have the heart to tell the old woman he was gay. When shooting the shit got boring, Roxas started making up stories about the passengers based on their looks. Old ladies in faux-fur that sniffed glue and used their priceless pearls as anal beads. Shit that didn't make sense, but made them laugh at their own morbid assertions.

Eventually, the sun dwindled and Namine fell asleep on his shoulder, leaving Roxas to watch the rain stream down the windows in hopes of staying awake.

**- Dream Sequence -**

Roxas was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard the faint sound of grease crackling in a pan. Spitting into the sink, he paused in his movements to recall if Namine had spent the night, or worse yet, he'd accidentally brought home an overly clingy one-night stand. When he couldn't recall the events of the night, he stepped outside of the bathroom and looked down the dimly lit hall, "Namine?"

He waited for a moment for a response, but only heard the sound of the sink-faucet running alone with the clanking of silverware. Confident that a burglar, or murderer, wouldn't bother to cook breakfast, he assumed it was Namine and walked towards the kitchen.

Upon entering the kitchen, he was greeted with nothing. The kitchen was untouched and as far as he could tell, no one was in his apartment. As if waiting for the punch-line to a joke, he stood in the kitchen for several moments before turning to go back to his bathroom. However, there was no bathroom to go back to.

His apartment had seemingly opened to an old and nearly dilapidated church. Several people were scattered in the pews and he could hear the various whispers of a muffled prayer. In front of him was a large altar with both familiar and unfamiliar religious icons. Aside from a few candles scattered along t window sills, the only light source came from the large altar in front of him. What seemed like thousands of candles bounced of statues of the religious icons, creating ghostly shadows. In the center of the altar was a monstrous sculpture of the crucifixion, and below that, was the Virgin Mary with outstretched arms.

"What is this?"

No one acknowledged his existence, let alone offer him an answer. He swallowed hard and was about to take a step toward the altar when he felt pressure in his nose followed by a copper taste on his lips. Touching his finger-tips to his nose he glanced at the blood on his fingers. Lifting his gaze slowly, all of the occupants who had acted as if here were invisible, were now staring at him.

**- End of Dream -**

By the time they'd arrived in Redford, Minnesota, the rain had transitioned into light snow. Roxas could see that Namine was excited, brimming with questions about his home town, but she kept them sealed up. Roxas was thankful for that, at least. Roxas didn't allow himself to take in the scenery, to soak in both the familiar and unfamiliarity of ten years. He was nervous, so he kept himself distracted until they were at the hotel.

As they unpacked, Roxas considered how childish he was probably behaving over this funeral. After all, his mother was dead and that was it. There was nothing beyond death, despite all his mother had tried to teach him. No good. No evil. The funeral would be tomorrow and he needed a distraction.

"You hungry? I know a diner nearby here. Well, if it's still there, that is."

"Are you sure?"

Roxas shrugged, chuckling mostly to himself, "Well, it's probably better than eating stale Doritos out of the vending machine, Right?" Namine merely giggled in response.

* * *

By the time they left, the snow was falling harder and begun to stick. The deeper they drove into town, the more Roxas begun to open up about his past. He spoke in animated fashion about the places he went as a kid, the ice-cream parlor that used to be on the corner but had been replaced with a grocery store, and the one time he'd broken his arm from falling out of a tree.

The stories continued as they walked into the diner, one about the annual harvest festival and another about catching salamanders in the brook behind his house. Soon the stories hushed, switching over to more current things so that any old-timers wouldn't associate him with the town. After the waitress took their order, Namine talked about the art gallery she would be featured in in a couple of months. A surprise she wanted to tell him after the funeral, but figured now was better than ever. In her usual humble fashion, she asserted it was just a small gig and nothing too exciting, but Roxas was excited for her.

Somewhere in their conversations, Roxas began to tune her out. A table a few booths down was grabbing his attention. About five people were sitting, chatting, and being fairly rambunctious. From what Roxas could see, the ages varied but what caught his attention, were vibrant green eyes. They belonged to a red-head who looked tall even sitting down. His red-hair was tied back and while Roxas was horrible at matching faces with ages, he assumed he was probably in his late twenties. He was smirking at a blonde with a strange mullet. All teeth, straight and white. Sharp jawline and strange tear drops on his cheeks. If it weren't for his vibrant hair and eyes, he'd be plain and dull. Another face in a crowd, but those eyes were haunting. Terrifying, even. Roxas was seriously wondering where he'd picked up all of these notions of fear. He was staring openly and blatantly, transfixed until those green eyes locked straight onto his blue-ones.

"Oh my god, Roxas! You're bleeding!"

Roxas looked back at Namine, eye-brows crinkling in confusion. Then he tasted the copper in his mouth. Out of instinct, he wiped the back of his hand against his nose, staring at the blood smeared on his skin. Out of embarrassment and not wanting to cause a scene, he stood quickly and walked to the bathroom. The table of strangers and green-eyes were forgotten.

"Fuck."

Roxas cursed, cleaning his face off in the bathroom. He reached for a tissue to stop the bleeding, but with his face washed, it appeared his nose had stopped bleeding. Not entirely convinced, he held the tissue to his nose as he checked to make sure the blood hadn't stained his clothes. He assumed it wasn't a big deal, most likely caused by his change in medication. So after composing himself, he brushed his fingers through his hair before stepping out into the diner.

He smiled nervously at Namine and the concerned waitress who was delivering their food. He cleared his throat, looking straight ahead as he walked back to the table and sat with Namine. He reassured her that he was fine and in order to move past the awkward scene, he talked about his childhood. The good parts, at least.

* * *

The funeral had been dreary at best. As anticipated, no one had showed up. Roxas was relieved, he'd never met his family outside of his mother and only had heard stories of his father. He didn't think a funeral would be the best time for an introduction. Once again, the snow was falling heavily and a thin layer had already begun to coat the roads. Admittedly, Roxas was more concerned about getting the rental car back to the hotel in one piece, then what was going on in front of him.

Truth be told, his therapist had been right. A heavy burden had been lifted after watching his mother's casket being lowered into the ground. There was no forgiving or tears shed, but he felt better about his past. Smiling gently at Namine, he gave her a nod to signal that he was finished before walking away from the grave. He'd seen everything he needed to see, there was no point in sticking around any longer than that.

"Thanks for coming with me. I don't know what I would do without you, Namine." An affectionate smile was shared between the two before they briefly discussed their plans for the remainder of the evening.

"Hey, is that one of your relatives?"

Namine knocked elbows with Roxas before gesturing towards the rental car where a middle-aged man was leaning against their vehicle. He didn't seem to notice the duo at first, but when he did, he pushed off the car and looked at Roxas with a broad smile.

"I apologize for the impromptu visit and the inappropriate timing, but there are some important legal matters we must discuss, Roxas." As the man spoke, he walked to meet the duo half-way, extending a hand towards Roxas who hesitantly shook it.

"I'm sorry, but who exactly are you? And what legal matters?"

"Ah, I apologize. I'm Luxord and I was your mother's lawyer. Given the circumstances, I wasn't sure how long you'd be in town for or how to contact you. I'm here to discuss your mother's will with you, Roxas. I understand that your relationship wasn't the best, but are you aware that she's left everything to you?"

* * *

They had left in a hurry, it was probably the first time Roxas had ever snapped at Namine. Warning her not to speak about Luxord or the will. Understandably, she was irritated and their remaining night at the hotel had been in complete silence.

"Look, Roxas, I'm just saying you should think about it."

Roxas sighed heavily, staring out the window of the train as they made their way back to Ohio. He was biting his nails out of anxious habit. He spent a few more seconds in silence before looking at Namine, "You don't get it, Namine. Everything bad that has ever happened to me, happened in that house. If I sell it, it's out of my life. I don't want anything to do with, get it?"

Namine frowned, shifting awkwardly in her seat, "I know, Roxas. Look, all I'm saying is don't make any brash decisions, y'know? Talk it over with your therapist. Even if you don't keep it, it could be good for you to see."

After that, the conversations were spare. It was understood that Roxas wasn't angry at her, but that he need his space. He needed to think. A stranger he'd never met before, had just walked in and told him his mother not only left him his childhood home, but everything in it. He couldn't even fathom how she'd managed to keep it over the last ten years, or who had been taking care of it, if at all.

To lighten the mood, he told Namine a story about how the balding man a few aisles down was secretly a member of a cult.

* * *

Once home, things resumed as usual. Despite Roxas' assertion that he wanted the house sold, Luxord insisted on giving Roxas fourteen days to make his final decision. Roxas maintained his decision to sell everything. No priceless item or family heirloom was going to make him change his mind.

On day seven, he came home to find an eviction notice on his apartment door.


End file.
